


moonlight (and sunrise)

by averynicecake



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Dancing, Drunken Kissing, First Kiss, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Garreg Mach Ball (Fire Emblem), Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Morning Kisses, Tumblr Prompt, Underage Drinking, no beta we die like Glenn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-21 18:56:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30026343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/averynicecake/pseuds/averynicecake
Summary: Somewhere between their second or third glasses of monastery-approved sparkling wine, they've decided to steal the bottle straight from the Professor's room and sneak it back to their dormitories.Ashe is insistent on dancing under the stars, despite locking themselves inside.Dedue has always thought Ashe was beautiful, but never more so than in the moonlight.
Relationships: Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert/Dedue Molinaro
Comments: 5
Kudos: 24





	moonlight (and sunrise)

**Author's Note:**

> the lovechild of two tumblr prompts;
> 
> 1\. good morning kiss - with ashe  
> 3\. drunk/sloppy kiss - with ashedue
> 
> semi self-indulgent tenderness between two lovesick fools on the night of the establishment day ball and the morning that follows.
> 
> (cw for underage drinking, depending on what your drinking laws are. fic is entirely sfw/gen-friendly. sorry for my spacing, I wrote this on my phone)

They sneak into Dedue’s room under the shadow of night, stumbling over the gaps in the floorboards and stifling their giggles like it’s the funniest thing in the world. The merry murmur of the dining hall is faint through the walls, and the windows are frozen over on the inside with tiny crystals of ice that melt against the heat of drunk laughter, beading at the bottom of the sill and dripping off onto books that lay dog-eared against the wall. The snowflakes Ashe made him out of folded paper and string hang from his shelf – more floppy than frosty from the damp gathering on the wood, but still a sweet gesture to keep them there. The flowers in the vases holding down the garland seem to almost shiver in the cold, Dedue’s helicopter parenting of his plants seemingly keeping them bright and blooming despite the bite of the Ethereal Moon weather.

It’s the night of the Garreg Mach Establishment Ball, the only night of the year that they can stay up all night without Seteth nagging, and they’re each allowed one glass of sparkling wine with their dinner. Personally, Ashe feels like watching Sylvain get turned down by every girl he asks to dance is something that warrants more than just a glass, but the staff don’t seem to share the same opinion, so somewhere around the second or third glass he and Dedue had wheedled off any non-drinkers, they decided it was easier to just cut out the middle man and make a hasty trip to the faculty floor. Figuring out where they were keeping the bottles wasn’t too hard; Seteth and Hanneman were too strait-laced to keep it in their offices, Manuela couldn’t be trusted not to drink them all, and Jeralt’s office had lay untouched since the last time he walked out. It had to be in Professor Byleth’s room, so the two of them crept out when they were sure she was busy being schmoozed by their classmates and Ashe had picked the lock on her quarters and stolen – sorry, Lonato – a bottle and a half from under her desk. They finished off the half trying to figure out how to lock her door back up, but the bottom of the bottle only held the answer of ‘screw it’, and they’d scurried back to their dorms as quietly as they could between bouts of drunken giggles.

Dedue sets the bottle down on his desk, searching for something to pull off the cork. He scrambles for a few seconds in the dark before there’s the scraping of a match, and Ashe lights each individual candle around the room, flame licking perilously close to his fingertips.

“Thank you.” Dedue leans down to blow out the match, takes a deep breath of the smoke it leaves behind. The wood smoke is oddly comforting.

Ashe smiles. His cheeks are already flushed from the cold and the wine, but they turn a shade darker when their faces are so close. “If you need something to open that, I think I have a knife in my room,” he offers.

“Don’t trouble yourself, I’ll just... pull it? I suppose?” He shakes his head, looking at the bottle like it’s an alien species. “Thank you, though.” Dedue slips his thumb between the rim of the bottle and the cork and pushes tentatively, shoulders already squaring in anticipation. It sounds a loud pop that makes them both jump, and the cork fires directly into one of Ashe’s paper snowflakes, tearing it off its string.

They look at each other and burst out laughing.

“How do you want to...?”

“Pass it here.” Ashe takes a swig straight from the bottle and grimaces slightly, dabbing his mouth with the back of his sleeve. It’s not an entirely unpleasant taste, but it could benefit from some honey and a few spices to cover up the dryness. Upon handing it back to Dedue, he notices his hands are turning pink, and holds one to his forehead. “Am I warm?” he asks, maybe a little worried of passing on a sickness to his friend.

Dedue slugs back a good portion of the bottle – it’s fair, considering the volume of alcohol it took to even get him feeling fuzzy – and presses his hand to Ashe’s forehead. “Not particularly. You just feel drunk.”

He chuckles as if it’s a secret. “Maybe.”

“What about me, do I feel hot?”

A gentle, slender hand lays itself across his cheek, testing the warmth all the way to his neck with a tentative swipe. “Not particularly,” he parrots back.

His hand doesn’t fall away as quickly as Dedue expects. He wants to put it down to intoxication, slow reflexes and lapse in judgement and everything he knows wine will do so easily to a man that petite, but there’s no way he tweaked his chin like that by accident. Temperature climbing by the second, he doubts the wine is particularly picky in its victims after all. He looks his friend up and down, captured by how rumples his suit is, collar sticking up at a skew, hair ruffled from crawling under the professor’s desk in the dark. Enraptured by the way his freckles look all the more stark against the rosiness of his skin. He has always thought his friend was a pretty sight, but he’s fallen somewhere through the night into wanting to describe him as beautiful. He claws at the front button of his own shirt, tearing it down to his collarbone until he feels like he can breathe again.

“Remind me why we snuck away?” Dedue asks, any impatience in his voice coming from his firm determination to ignore the blossoming buzz in his chest.

“Because there’s a limit to how many times in one night you can watch the nobles chatting each other up before you feel like you’re watching a pantomime,” Ashe chuckles, “and Lorenz made me reach that limit the moment he walked through the door.”

He’s right - the noble son of Count Gloucester has quite the flirtatious appetite, so proven by his total lack of shame when, upon trying his fancy with Ingrid, she slapped him across the face and turned heel no quicker than he had given his mouthful of a name. He barely batted an eyelid, just... brushed the hair out of his mouth and moved on the next girl who crossed his line of sight. He was like a cruder form of Sylvain, if one could imagine such a horror.

Looking around his dormitory, Dedue scratches awkwardly at the nape of his neck, ill-fitted dinner jacket rising over his ribs. “I am afraid there’s not much here to entertain you. It isn’t often I have company.”

His classmate shakes his head. “Not at all! I’m enjoying myself plenty already.” He plucks the bottle from the desk, struggling to heft the weight against his small stature. “It is a bit of a shame to miss all the dancing, though,” he laments between gulps, “I quite like the idea of a dance under the moonlight. It’s a silly romantic fantasy, really, but-”

“I could dance with you.” Dedue hardly processes the words before they’ve flown out of his mouth at a barely comprehensible speed. Heat creeps up the back of his neck, making his hair stand on end. “Unless you would prefer to go back?”

Ashe beams from ear to ear. “I would very much like to dance with you, Dedue. I can’t say I’m awfully good at it, but I can try my best.” He sets the bottle against the bed and steps out into the centre of the room, gesturing for Dedue to take his hands.

He follows suit, though his grip is more like a claw, as if he’s wearing mittens over his suit. “I dare say your talent still outmatches my own.” He tenses as Ashe pushes his fingers apart to interlock with his own, and sets his palm against his waist, extending his own grip to Dedue’s shoulder. He can barely reach from arm’s length, and scootches in until their chests are so close, he’s certain his racing heartbeat can be felt through his blazer.

“We don’t have any music. Would you mind if I whistled?”

“Not at all.”

He wets his lips. “I’ll try to keep in tune.”

Ashe begins to step backwards to the rhythm of the song he whistles - similar to what was played in the hall, but not entirely the same - and Dedue matches his footfall, trying to balance between watching where he treads and not hunching over at the floor. It seems simple enough to begin with. Forward, side, side, back, side, side, one-two-three. It’s a manageable pace that he can mostly-sort-of keep, though he trips over his own shoes a few times and can’t help but smile at the way the whistling shakes with the interruption of a giggle.

All is well and good until Ashe begins to actually move away from the square they’ve been dancing in, and tries to dance his way across the room. It’s far more difficult to keep track of which foot goes where when he’s watching out for obstacles that his partner can’t see, trying to move away from the bookshelf instead of careening directly into it, and Goddess, but it doesn’t help when the shadows of Ashe’s eyelashes are fluttering under the candlelight are dancing right alongside them, sweeping over moonlit freckles, sweeping to the easy melody that will work its way into his head for weeks to come. Those sharp green eyes look up at him all of a sudden, squinted from a smile, and he all but loses his balance completely as the whistle turns into a shrill yelp, and he tumbles into the desk, his arm shooting out to catch the falling bottle of wine instead of keeping himself from falling on his ass, and Ashe lands on him with a ceremonious thump, letting out a yelp before something cold and wet splashes down his neck. The remains of Dedue’s vase clatter to the floor, along with the flower it housed, and Ashe shakes his head like a dog shaking off water, bangs dripping over his forehead.

Dedue stares at him, unsure of what to say. He stares back. His chin quivers, and Dedue’s heart drops, convinced he’s going to cry, before Ashe bursts out laughing and collapses on his chest. His own laughter rips out of him before he even has a chance to consider how appropriate it is - maybe that’s why people like drinking so much, to be able to laugh so freely without having to care why. Their bodies shake with giggles, Ashe’s grey curls sopping wet and dripping over Dedue’s cheeks.

“I don’t think either of us are very good dancers after all.” Dedue tries to catch his breath, still finding himself chuckling at his own clumsiness.

“You might just be right,” is the gleeful response, “but it’s still the most fun I’ve had in a while. Thank you, Dedue.”

His mouth goes dry at the gentle voice he says his name in, so he just nods and hopes his eyes haven’t gone as wide as he thinks they have. He reaches up to push the damp hair out of Ashe’s eyes. A smaller hand clasps over his fingers, pinning them in place against his cheek. He flinches, staring blankly at those piercing green eyes with pupils wide as saucers.

“Ashe,” he starts in a whisper, but gets cut off by a finger to his mouth. He sucks in a breath to apologise but his lips are suddenly occupied. His vision is obscured by a mess of grey hair, cheeks framed by thin, sweaty palms, and - more importantly - Ashe is kissing him. He’s shaking, shoulders tensed so tight there’s a high chance he’ll snap in half, but before he can force himself to relax, he’s met with a rush of cold air and Ashe has hopped off him entirely and stumbles back into the bed. “Ashe,” he laments.

“I- I’m so sorry! I don’t know what came over me. I think I’ve had too much to drink.” He brings his knees to his chest and shakes his head, offering a smile that doesn’t meet the rest of his expression. “Pretend that never happened.”

Dedue inhales sharply. “And if I don’t want to do that?”

Ashe looks at him as if he’s just let out a string of colourful curses. “I’m not sure what you mean. Why would you...?”

“I like you, Ashe.” He scuffles against the floorboards, kneeling in front of the bed where his companion is sat. “I have always thought you were beautiful, but even more so tonight.”

“You’re too kind,” he says, with not a hint of gratitude in his voice.

“We have watched our friends courting one another all night to no avail. It doesn’t make for an inspiring level of faith, but I would be amiss in not trying.” He cringes under Ashe’s blank stare. “I... would like to court you. If you would let me.”

“You want to- to court? _Me_?”

“I’m sorry if that’s inappropriate. When you kissed me, I thought you intended-”

“No! No, it isn’t inappropriate at all. I didn’t expect you to feel the same way, but that isn’t to say I’m not glad that you do.” Dedue sighs, leaning forward to rest his forehead against Ashe’s knee. His hand runs through the bristles of his hair and he hums at the gentle touch. “Would you come and sit beside me? So that I might kiss you again?”

It doesn’t take a lot of convincing before he’s perched on the mattress, face cupped in those warm hands with his own slung around his friend’s waist, melting into the sweetest kiss he’s ever felt, heart so overflowingly full that he could cry. Laughter buzzes against his teeth. He pulls Ashe into his lap, resting his chin on his forehead and inhaling the heady scent of wine on their breath. Whether this is just for tonight, or for good, it’s nice to take a moment to not think about anything other than _now_ – just the two of them, still dripping with vase water and grinning like idiots, a little in love. Dedue had almost forgotten how that felt in his service to his Highness. Leaving Dimitri alone in a ballroom was perhaps not his best idea, but he’ll worry about it tomorrow.

Ashe gasps suddenly, and scrambles to put out the candles on the nightstand before running to the door and pressing his face against the keyhole. He hisses. “Seteth’s coming. Quick, pretend to be asleep!” He leaps up onto the bed just as Dedue is lying back, bundling the covers over him in a desperate attempt to look cozy. “The wine!” He scatters away again, grabbing the bottle and shutting it in the bedside cabinet, diving desperately into bed beside Dedue, curling flat against his chest and pulling the covers over both their heads.

There’s a firm knock at the door, right on cue. Neither of them says a word as the door creaks open and soft torchlight sweeps around the room, catching in their direction. Seteth seems satisfied that nothing illicit is happening, and closes the door behind him.

Dedue stops holding his breath and sighs. “It’s later than I thought.”

Ashe splays his hand against his and nods. “I should probably get to bed.”

“I know your room is only next door, but you could stay here.” Their fingers tangle together. “You don’t have to accept.”

He’s already unbuttoning his blazer by the time he finishes his sentence, kicking his boots off and peeling out of his gloves. He turns and undoes Dedue’s for him, curling back up against his starched shirt and pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “Goodnight, Dedue.”

“Goodnight, Ashe,” he murmurs into his hair.

\---

Dedue rises, as he does every day, to the first spill of sunrise over the horizon, and his worries of having dreamt the entire night are immediately soothed by the weight of Ashe’s upper body draped over his own, mouth slightly parted, fast asleep. He’s even more handsome in the sunlight than he looked under the moon. He didn’t think it possible.

He lies flat, muscles finally unclenching after carrying what’s probably weeks of tension, wraps his arm over Ashe’s back, falling back into the in-and-out rest of his first lie-in in years. The frost hangs heavy at the windows – another reason to be grateful for another body in his bed – and the sound of the groundskeepers lugging their equipment across the grass grates at the faint thrumming in his skull. It must be later than he usually wakes up. On an ordinary morning, he greets them on his way to find his Highness, and they’ll often give him some seeds they’ve found in the supply room or a flower they’ve had to cut with the grass that he’ll keep in his pocket until he remembers it at the end of the day, squashed up with the petals rolled in, ready to be nursed back to health in one of his pots or vases. The last flower they gave him is lying on the floor surrounded by chunks of ceramic.

None of it worries him. None of it matters when _he’s_ here.

He presses a chaste kiss to the crown of Ashe’s head, dragging the scent of violets through his lungs. He stirs a little, scrabbling for purchase. Dedue catches his hands, and kisses over his knuckles, holding them against his lips just to gently brush over them. A finger unfurls to swipe against his nose, and he looks down to a sleepy smile and his vibrant eyes blinking slowly, the way a cat blinks when it trusts you.

“ _Mourmin’_ ,” he greets with his face squished up against Dedue’s chest, the rumples of his shirt imprinted as pink lines on his cheek when he arches up and leans for a kiss.

They lose themselves to the tenderness of one another’s touch, winding their hands together, breaking away only to touch their foreheads like nesting birds. Ashe tastes of morning breath and the dregs of sparkling wine. It’s an awful combination by anyone’s standards, perhaps even more so the refined palette of a chef, but Dedue does not and _could_ not give a damn if he tried, because the delicate purse of his lips against his own, the carding of hands through his hair, the feeling of strumming his palm over Ashe’s shoulder, and the way his smile turns effortless every time they lock eyes – compared to that, everything else is just details. For once, he doesn’t have to _worry_ about the details.

“Good morning, Ashe,” he says. “I think I love you.”

Ashe only grins. “I could get used to waking up like this.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to those who sent the prompts in!  
> come hang out with me on tumblr @fereldans :^)
> 
> kudos and comments always very loved and welcome <3


End file.
